About flower pot illusions and childhood blankets
by dancingnakedincandlelight
Summary: "You got it all, Beca Mitchell. Now you just have to start being happy. It's really easy. Let's try it together. Life is good. Life is good. Try to sound like you mean it. Good. Now smile. Again. No. You look like you're feeling nauseous. You sigh and lie back down again." First Fanfic, very close to my heart. Please treat it kindly. - Oneshot


Pitch Perfect

You close your eyes and let the music float through you, let every nerve vibrate in the rhythm of the bass beat. The high notes of the refrain burning your chest, constricting your throat.

_This gotta be a good life... Hopelessly._

You grimace. Why does the music mock you? You don't know. You're probably just being dramatic. But that's what it's all about, right? You being dramatic, you having a good life and still...

You have the greatest, most hilarious collection of misfits to call your friends and a sweet guy, who's head over heels for you. You got it all, Beca Mitchell. Now you just have to start being happy. It's really easy. Let's try it together. Life is good. Life is good. Try to sound like you mean it. Good. Now smile. Again. No. You look like you're feeling nauseous. You sigh and lie back down again.

_You don't know what you're looking for._

_You don't know who you are anymore._

_How long will it last?_

You don't know why you're lying here on your bed, trying to read something into the random lyrics the music pumps into your brain. You also don't know why you told Jesse you had to study. As if you were passing the exams. You didn't even go to any of the classes. Except for this one philosophy class were they discussed, if the flower pot is still there, when we aren't looking. Because how could we know, we weren't looking. DUH! It's a fucking flower pot! It doesn't dematerialize itself! That's not an episode of Doctor Who! Morons.

Anyway, you are drifting off. Jesse. He is the perfect guy. Sweet, caring, funny. But you keep waiting for the butterflies. For the electricity when you touch. You just feel numb. The problem is, you're feeling numb all the time. You know that feeling numb is a thousand times healthier than how you used to feel. But how do you know there are no feelings for Jesse, if your aren't looking? Maybe you could start looking. Try to peer through the numbness. Yes. That's what you decide. Silencing the little voice in the back of your head, who asks what you're going to do, if you blinded yourself irrevocably or worse what if the numbness disappeared completely?

When you see him again for your "moviecation" you concentrate. First on his warm chocolate eyes. They're nice. Especially when they are smiling at you like this. Exactly four laughter lines spread from his eyes to his mouth. His lips. They're nice too, you guess. Not too full, but still full enough to let you know they kiss softly. You notice that he dips his head and said lips are now mere Inches from yours. You feel his breath on your face. You wonder what it would be like, to kiss him. If it would lift the numbness. But it's not like you can just try without there being consequences. What if you still feel empty and grey? So you cough awkwardly and sit upright. Effectively breaking the moment. You think it's the first time in your life you're actually grateful to see Kimmy Jin. You might even put of your plan to strangle the bitch in her sleep.

Maybe you are broken. Not the dramatic suicidal kind of broken, but the tea kettle kind. Maybe the butterfly-thing is just something that broke off or wasn't delivered correctly in first place. If so wouldn't it be the best to go for someone you just feel comfortable with? Someone you could imagine to spend your everyday-life with? To introduce to your parents? Not that they cared. Being with Jesse would be so easy. It would feel natural. Like being with your best friend. You could life in your nice little cloud of numbness and he'd be right beside you. True, you don't feel that pull towards him, but it's not like you ever had it with someone else. You always kind of fell into relationships. It was expected from you. At least now you would fall into it with someone you actually like. Which honestly is more than you could say about most of the guys you've been with.

You start to tell him stuff. You don't know why. What makes you let your guard down enough to tell him about your mother. How she left. For – quote – the love of her life. After you told him you're shocked about yourself. Sure you thought about kissing him, but kissing was safe. Safer at least. Kissing doesn't make you vulnerable. You don't even have to know the name of the person you kiss, or how his face looks like, when it's not blurry. Talking however gives the other person power over you. Especially if it's something that itself already has power over you. But he is nice enough about it. He talks you out of your shock. He tells you that sometimes life doesn't go as planned. Neither for you, nor your mother. And it's a good thing that she's so happy now though, right? Right? You think it sounds very Zen. Life doesn't go as planned, little grasshopper. But you try to be nice about it. Because, really, what can he say? That's mainly why you don't tell people about these kind of things. Well besides the vulnerable part. The reaction people have and their attempt to rationalize, to find a solution sort of devalues your story. Because they don't see it as your story, they see it as a problem. Like a door that scratches the hardwood floor. So they want to fix it. Give you advice and all that crap. Expect you to nod, smile and erase the notch from your heart. So that it's nice and immaculate again.

It's months until you tell him something again. This time it's not something that's buried deep down. It's right underneath the surface. Floating through your lungs, bubbling up your throat in regular intervals. You don't have control over the word vomit that you spit out in front of him. Your body just tries to get rid of it like too much tequila on the morning after. But It's too late anyway. You already have a hangover so puking is kind of pointless, really. It won't make you feel any better, but you do it anyway, because your stomach is heaving and saliva is pooling in your mouth. So you tell him about the beautiful creme-coloured envelope with the heavy expensive paper. The two linked gold rings on the cover, blurred into an eternity sign. Always Forever. That's what they wrote underneath. What your Mum told you will be carved in the rings. You didn't dare to call your Dad. You don't even know, if he got an invitation, too. And Jesse holds you while you sob, getting more incoherent with each breath. He murmurs into your ear and you bury your head in his neck. Soaking his shirt with your tears. You just shut the world out and you realize, that the numbness cleared a bit. Chapped through the hurt, one feeling trickles through the cracks into the fog. Safety. You feel safe. You can't remember the last time you felt like this. You want to curl up like a cat, bathing in the knowledge that nothing could harm you. You feel like you used to feel under your blanket. No monsters could reach you there. That's how you feel in Jesses arms. Finally when you calm down, he smiles down at you and swipes a single tear from your cheek. You contemplate to kiss him. But you think about the safety and that it would be gone forever if you give in and then mess it up, like you know you will. So you turn your head, reject him and protect your safety. You know you are being selfish, but you are still too overwhelmed by this feeling of complete and utter safety that you can't bear the thought of losing it. So you do the only logical thing. You run. Because you can't loose him.

Of course he doesn't let you. At least he tries not to. He talks about your mother. A lot. You stay silent. You want him to shut up. Because he doesn't get that this is not in the slightest about your stupid mother and her ridiculously happy relationship. It's about Jesse and his stupid neck of safety and your childhood blanket and running. When he leaves you don't know if you're relieved or disappointed. You just put on your headphones and choose something loud and violent. You turn up the music until you feel pain. You deserve it. How could you hurt him like that? You close your hands to fists and dig your nails into your skin. Your jaw is so tense that you think your teeth might break. You can't erase the disappointed look in his eyes, from your memory, when he finally gave up and left. You look around for something to release the tension, the pain. Your fists wander to your hair and pull at it. Hard. Angry tears escaped your eyes. You stupid bitch. You worthless piece of shit. Why do you have to ruin everything? You kick your nightstand so hard that it topples over. BAM! You're glad Kimmy Jin is not here to witness your break-down. Or now that you think about it, maybe she would hurt your foot less than your nightstand. You feel the pain seeping through your chest. You know that you are deliberately hurting yourself and you know what your eyes searched the room for. That's why you jump up and hurry out of the room. You go outside and take a deep breath. And then another. The numbness is gone. You turn around and start running.


End file.
